The Mistress of Tall Acre (46 page)

In the waning afternoon light, Seamus’s legal counsel wore a look of resignation and regret. “You understand that your case could take longer than expected, General Ogilvy.”

Seamus’s gaze roamed the rich mahogany walls of Henley and Stokes’ paneled study on this, his third trip to Richmond. He feared over time the chamber would become as familiar as his own. “How long in your estimation?”

“A year, perhaps . . . years.” Stokes rubbed his chin, his red-rimmed eyes indicating a lack of sleep. “The defendant, Anne Howard, has made it clear she is determined to turn this into an extended battle if you don’t give in to her demands from the outset.”

Seamus set his jaw. “I will not relent.”

“I’m afraid there is more than Mistress Howard at play.” Henley, the elder of the two attorneys, paused to take a pinch of snuff. “States such as ours are scrambling to establish new laws, making marital matters civil court proceedings rather than state proceedings, requiring action by the legislature. All of this takes time. Despite the war being won, many are staying true to English law and advocating no union can be dissolved, none more so than Virginia.” He met Seamus’s eyes. “Yours is a complicated case, General, and you may well be caught in the crossfire.”

“What more can be done?” Seamus’s tone knotted with impatience. After his years of being in command of a situation, the maze of legalities baffled and frustrated him.

Henley put on his spectacles and removed a paper from atop his desk. “You’re aware your first wife has filed her own petition, charging you with neglect and abandonment—”

“Because I was serving my country, a charge that will not hold up in court.”

“True enough, but one that must be dealt with nevertheless, including the more recent charge of bigamy.” Henley’s thin mouth twisted. “Take heart, General. You’re not the only man involved in a bigamy scandal. Others have done the same during the war, quitting their first families and starting second ones, though none are quite as well placed as you.”

Seamus failed to find even grim humor in it. “I did not quit my first family, mind you. Nor did I falsify my death, abandon my daughter, and flee to England.” Despite his best efforts, he spoke with a rancor that soured his stomach. “I am simply asking for a full dissolution with the right of remarriage.”

Henley pulled another paper from a hefty stack. “As matters stand, the innocent party will be set free from the bonds of marriage while the guilty party will be unable to remarry during the lifetime of the innocent spouse.”

“And my daughter? There is no question about custody?”

Henley met his gaze full-on. “Absolutely none. Virginia law is clear about paternal rights. Even Fitzhugh, all bully and bluff, hasn’t a leg to stand on.”

The reassurance rang hollow. “I want all that can be done to move this forward as if there were no expected delays, no impediments.”

Stokes rose from the desk to open a window as the sticky, early summer heat blanketed them. “Depositions from friends and relatives are needed, of course. Both Henley and I will be coming to Tall Acre to collect those with your consent.”

“What sort of depositions?”

“Statements from friends and relatives, even trusted servants, that may help in the case regarding your first wife’s conduct, among other matters.”

He felt a qualm. The newspapers would waste no ink printing every sordid detail. “There’s no avoiding dredging all this up for public consumption?”

“I’m afraid not,” Stokes said.

Seamus looked down, the ensuing silence rife with questions. Where had it all gone wrong? He was far from blameless, but he had tried to be a worthy husband. Faithful. Honorable. He’d put Anne’s needs above his own in the matter of a second child. He’d been a good provider while he was away fighting. But somehow it wasn’t enough. Now, as then, he was back in the thick of battle, sweating and harried, uncertain of the outcome.

Henley wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “You understand that the court might not consider any of the above things I’ve mentioned sufficient grounds for dissolution. Under colonial law, marriages are seldom dissolved unless there is evidence of cruelty or infidelity, though prior cases do exist in New England where abandonment for three years or longer is justification enough.”

Seamus stood, returning his cocked hat to his head. “You simply need to determine the truth.”

Henley and Stokes looked at him. “The truth?” they said in unison.

“Aye, the truth behind Anne’s leaving Virginia. The truth behind her years in England. The truth behind her return. I don’t know what that entails, but given time the facts will stand.”

He looked at them, a strange peace flooding his soul, so at odds with the anguish twisting inside him. Only that morning he had read a verse that seemed an anchor for his shifting circumstances.

And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.

34

S
ophie stood in the mulberry grove after a week at Three Chimneys, no longer spinning dreams of silk production. Would the estate revert to Clementine Randolph’s kin once again? If so, she’d be without a home, in the same predicament she’d been in at first. Nay, ’twas far more tangled now. She’d simply been a spinster then. Now she was a wife set aside. And a guarded one, at that. Her protector lurked nearby, back turned as if to give her some privacy, at least.

She pressed her palms to her bodice, so snug she’d soon have to set it aside. All her dresses seemed smaller, her bosom fuller. Despite her unsettled stomach and circumstances, she was blooming right before the eyes of anyone who cared to take a second look.

Leaning against a mulberry’s rough trunk, she shut her eyes. When she opened them, the guard was gone and Seamus stood before her. Sunlight skimmed his handsome features, warming his gaze and shimmering off his dark hair. He always carried himself like a soldier, tall and stalwart no matter their situation. Her heart gave a little leap. Might he bring . . . good news?

“I’ve been in Richmond. Matters are moving slowly.” He swallowed, the cords in his neck taut. “I’ll spare you the details.”

Her disappointment went bone deep. “How is Lily Cate?”

“Missing you, but busy in the schoolhouse with the new Scots tutor. I expect she’ll speak with a Scots brogue ere long.”

“So he’s come.” She smiled past the irritation of feeling excluded, unnecessary. “And Jenny, everyone else?”

“The fever is finally subsiding.” He tucked his hat under one arm. “Myrtilla is back in the spinning house again. The planting, all the seining for shad and herring, is done, but my correspondence is getting out of hand.”

“You need a personal secretary.”

“That would be you, Sophie.”

“Send over your papers and I’ll see to them gladly.”

His gaze sharpened, and he brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. He was looking at her as if they’d been apart weeks, not days. His touch told her the same. “Mistress Murdo said you’ve been ill.”

Self-consciously her arms went round her waist. “Nothing for you to worry about. Just missing you and Lily Cate.”

“She’s missing you.” His eyes darkened to a deeper blue. “She needs you in a hundred ways I cannot answer.”

“She’s welcome to walk across the meadow now that it’s spring.” Saying it brought back the sweetness of that first time, when they’d met gathering chestnuts. She kept her voice light. “I’m always right here.”

He tipped her chin up with his hand. “Do you have need of anything?”

“What could I possibly need? You’ve stuffed Three Chimneys’ larder with more goods than Tall Acre since my arrival. At least bring me your papers so I can earn my keep.”

“You’ll have them by tonight.”

“Tonight? Send them by way of the staff, then.” The surprise in his face begged explanation. “Because if you bring them yourself, you might be tempted to stay, and I—we—cannot.”

“By the staff, then.” He took a careful step back as if ready to leave, then tossed aside his tricorn and gathered her in his arms.

“Seamus, I—” Words of caution died in her throat at the beloved scent and feel of him. He was naught but fresh linen and fine soap, muscle and sinew. Her refuge.

He kissed her like a man who couldn’t remember what she felt or tasted like, with an urgency, a sweet fierceness, that had been missing before. “Sophie, love, this is nearly beyond enduring. I walk into the house and it feels empty. I feel empty. I reach for you in the night and you’re not there.” His tone was oddly tender and brusque. “By heaven, if I’d known you before the war, I would have been a failure on the field. You take up my every thought.”

“There was a time when I wondered if you’d ever love me.”

“Then wonder no longer.” For long moments he held her, saying nothing, and then his gaze fell to her hands resting against his chest. “Where is your ring?”

In answer, she fingered the fine chain about her throat, pulling it free of her bodice. “Near my heart if not my hand.”

His features tightened and he turned away, walking through the haze of sunlight to his waiting horse. When he rode off, it seemed he rode right out of her heart. Wooziness, once held at bay, now overcame her, and she barely made it to the bushes in time to empty her roiling stomach.

Sophie took out her sewing, the needle and thimble glinting in the firelight. The flannel fabric in her lap had been gotten in Roan by Mistress Murdo, who said not a word but seemed to know it was needed. Sophie rubbed it against her cheek. Soft as a rose petal and the blue of Seamus’s uniform coat, it seemed reassurance of a boy. Carefully she cut an infant’s gown from an old pattern kept by her mother with newly sharpened scissors.

Her thoughts drifted and refused to settle. Just yesterday, the day after Seamus had surprised her in the mulberry grove, Lily Cate had come. They’d spent an afternoon sewing together in the garden, Sophie full of praise for the little sampler Lily Cate was working. The alphabet was interwoven in a simple floral pattern, Lily Cate’s initials at the center.

“When I grow up, I want to sew as well as you, Mama.”

Sophie leaned nearer and kissed the sun-warmed crown of her head. She’d forgotten her hat, but Sophie didn’t want to scold her. Their time together was too precious to squander on foolish reproofs.

“I asked Papa if I could stay here with you till you come back.” She was chattering now, swinging her legs beneath her skirts, her sewing forsaken. “But he said you’ll be home soon.”

Oh Seamus . . .

“He’s teaching me to play chess. He says he misses you, that you are very good company. He even moved the painting of you.”

Sophie stopped her stitching. “Out of the Palladian room?”

Lily Cate nodded. “He put it over the mantel in the small parlor. ’Tis almost like you’re there with us.”

The guileless words left a mark.
Lord, I cannot do this any longer.

“Florie says I might have another mama. But I don’t want another mama. You’re my mama.”

Florie, nay.
She’d often spoken to Florie about being discreet. To no avail.

Setting aside her sewing, Sophie gathered Lily Cate in her arms, biting her tongue to keep from mouthing flimsy reassurances.
I’ll be home soon. We’ll have
a tea party in the garden and read fairy tales and say bedtime prayers . . .

Her stomach was churning again along with her emotions. She looked to the bushes. She would
not
be sick in front of Lily Cate. She would stay strong. She would remember the promises in Scripture. She would hope and pray and not give way.